


By the Light of the River

by narcissablaxk



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bedsharing, Canon Divergence, Confessions of love, Jim finds Oswald after he's shot, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Not Ivy, Post-3x15, death mention, gobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Jim is standing at the edge of the dock when he sees something he recognizes. That momentary flash of something familiar is enough to send him into the river, determined to save Oswald from certain death.





	By the Light of the River

Somehow, it felt like the rain made the river colder. Oswald had long given up trying to swim, trying to keep his head above the current. Instead, he floated, watching his blood billow out around him like a silk sheet. His blood was still warm, he could feel the temperature change as it flowed around his hand, around his face. It was almost comforting, a relaxing sensation that he assumed was going to carry him into death. After all, the gunshot in his belly had stopped hurting a while ago, and he was fairly certain he wasn’t even conscious anymore. 

How else could he have stayed underwater so long? How else could he be okay with inhaling so much water? No, he was certainly dreaming, or dead already. Perhaps he had been wrong to avoid death so violently for so long. This was comfortable, the sweet ebb and flow of the water, the coldness that made his bad leg so numb the pain was like a memory. 

And to think, he could have enjoyed this peacefulness, this weightlessness, years ago if he had just allowed Jim Gordon to shoot him on that dock. 

But no, he held onto life rabidly, much the same way he did anything else, and it had been that possessiveness that ultimately killed him. He could admit that to himself now, especially if it was only to himself. Killing Isabella had been a poor, rash decision, and as soon as he gave the order, he had lost Ed forever. Perhaps he had wanted that, he reflected now. Maybe he wanted to lose love. 

He had certainly proven to be a glutton for punishment before this particular instance. 

None of that mattered now, he supposed. All he had to do was float and wait for things to change. 

***

This was a bad day to come out here, Jim noted with no motive to change anything. He stared out across the water, letting the rain soak into his hair and his jacket, content to let the chill leak into his bones. He liked to come out here when things got too loud, too hectic. It reminded him that he wasn’t better than any of those cops in the GCPD. He stood on this dock once and had to decide whether or not to take a life. 

Not an innocent life, but a life. They were worth the same. 

He had risked his future by not killing Oswald that day, but if he could go back, he would still do the same thing. He liked not having that particular mark on his conscience. 

He glanced down at the water, muddy and almost green, sprinkled with fresh rain. He wondered, with that morbid intensity he always had, how deep the water was. How long would it take for him to find the bottom of the river? Was it filled with dead bodies, hits from the mob? Or was it full of little fish, with life and hope? 

There was something in there, something dark. Jim squinted, leaning a little closer to the water, wondering if today was the day he would slip and fall in. 

In the murky greyness of the water, something white drifted by. Jim could almost reach it, if he wanted to. But did he? It looked momentarily familiar, and he followed it with his eyes, trying to place it. 

And then he saw the cuff.

The little purple embroidered umbrella, stark against the white sleeve, stared up at him from beneath the curtain of water. He felt his breath stop halfway out of his chest, and blinked, hoping he was wrong. 

“Oswald?” he asked no one, finally leaning forward to try to catch the hand as it drifted. But he was farther away from the surface of the water than he realized, and it quickly became clear that if he wanted to be sure that the person in the river was not Oswald, he was going to have to jump in. 

He hesitated for only a fraction of the moment, and then his feet left the dock. The water was a shock to his system, and he was left gasping, trying to acclimate to the water, his goal momentarily forgotten. But then his arm brushed something as he tread water, and suddenly, he remembered. 

He groped for the hand again, trying to stay above the water and find what he was looking for. He grabbed onto something solid, and pulled, realizing as he did so that he was yanking on the lapels of Oswald’s jacket. It had to be Oswald’s, no one else wore this kind of suit. 

Suddenly, he was frantic, pulling at the man so that his head was above the water, his hands aggressively searching his neck for a pulse. 

“Come on, Oswald,” he muttered, trying to stay above water with the man’s added weight. “You can’t be dead. It’s impossible. Oswald Cobblepot doesn’t die.” 

But his fingers found nothing, and his murmurs dissolved into panic. 

“You can’t be dead,” he repeated as he swam for anything that looked like shore, the dock he was just on far too high up to reach. “You can’t be dead, I won’t let you be dead. Come on, Oswald, come on…”

The shore was riddled with trash, full of rocks, but Jim didn’t care. He hauled Oswald out of the water, trying not to think about the dead weight in his arms, trying not to think about his friend, dead. 

He set him down on the most even spot he could find, his hands trying again for a pulse. Still, he found nothing. With a panicked growl, he put his hands on Oswald’s chest and started compressions. No way would he let him die in the river when Jim had tried so hard to keep him out of it. 

It wasn’t until the blood started to spread around them that Jim realized Oswald had been shot. He peeled back the layers of his suit to find the bullet wound, burn marks buried in his skin. Point blank range. 

He pressed one hand to the wound, trying to stave off the bleeding, and reached for Oswald’s face with the other. “Breathe, you idiot,” he growled. “You’re Oswald Cobblepot. You don’t get to die in a river like a stupid umbrella boy.” 

But nothing happened, and Oswald’s skin was ashen gray, almost blue, and Jim was quickly starting to lose his grip on what little self-control he had left. 

“God dammit, Oswald,” he exclaimed, the shout almost a sob, driving his fist into the man’s chest while trying to keep the wound in his stomach covered. “Wake up!” 

He didn’t know how many times he hit him, how many times he ordered him to wake up, but after what felt like an eternity, when his arm was screaming for him to give up, Oswald gave a gasp like Jim had never heard before, water immediately pouring out of his mouth, and Jim collapsed, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. 

“Jim?” Oswald’s voice was wretched, almost unintelligible. 

“Welcome back, old friend,” Jim replied, a hysterical laugh tumbling out of his mouth. 

“He…can’t know…” Oswald’s eyes were rolling back in his head, his grip on Jim’s arm so light it was barely there. “He…can’t…”

Jim waited, catching his breath, hoping Oswald would continue. But he was unconscious again, breathing somewhat normally. It was the best Jim could ask for in this situation. But Oswald claimed “he can’t know,” and Jim had been around the block enough to know Oswald meant that whoever shot him couldn’t know he survived. 

That meant the hospital was out of the question. With a groan, Jim forced himself to his feet and considered Oswald’s prone form, trying to figure out how to best move him. In spite of the cold, of his soaking wet clothes, gratitude and relief washed over him in waves. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so scared that someone was going to die. Hearing Oswald say his name had pulled a weight off of him so heavy that Jim felt like he could float away at any moment. 

He pushed it aside, deciding to consider those troubling emotions later. 

***

Oswald lingered outside of the enjoyable dream he’d been living in before. The water had been soothing and weightless, but suddenly, he felt heavier than he’d ever felt before, and there was an ache deep in his chest that he couldn’t place or soothe. 

He remembered, hazily, Jim Gordon’s voice, telling him to wake up. It was a broken record, repeating itself over and over again, so much that Oswald really wanted to wake up, wanted to tell him that he could hear him, that he understood. But something was just out of reach, and he stayed where he was. 

“If you ever do me another favor in this life, keep breathing.” 

The voice sounded like Jim’s, but was he just hearing things? Oswald couldn’t be sure, and soon, other sounds drowned him out. He could hear clangs, and clicking sounds, things that were familiar and yet completely alien to him. He let the sounds and a sudden rocking lull him as much as possible, but the burning in his lungs and chest were an overwhelming amount of pain, and soon, he found he couldn’t ignore them anymore. 

He barely registered his eyes fluttering open, and the unfamiliar ceiling he was staring at; for a while, he was sure he was dead again. But a light was suddenly in his eyes, and he heard a familiar voice talking. 

“I’ve done everything I can. Keep him warm and don’t let him move. You fractured a couple of his ribs during compressions. But I took out that bullet and cleaned it up. He’s not quite out of the woods, but I’m hopeful.” 

“Thank you,” Jim’s voice was unmistakable, hoarse and overworked. 

“I’ve given him something for the pain, so that should keep him knocked out for a while,” the woman’s voice, it had to be Lee, was soft and worried. “You should take that time to rest, you look exhausted.” 

“As exhausted as you can be, after pulling a man from the river and bringing him back to life.” 

“Don’t be flippant,” Lee replied firmly. “He almost died in your arms.” 

“I remember what happened,” Jim said shortly. 

Oswald could hear Lee’s heels on the floor, starting toward the door. “I just think it’s about time the both of you are honest with each other.” 

“There could not be a worse time for things like that,” Jim pointed out. 

“If you say so,” Lee replied, and Oswald heard the door open and close. A few moments later, the lock in the door clicked shut, and silence reigned. 

“Jim?” Oswald’s voice was barely a whisper, but Jim was by his side in a second. “Thank you.” 

“You’re going to be okay,” he replied. “You just need some time to recuperate.” 

“It was Ed,” Oswald murmured, the pain medication softening the edges of his vision. “Because I killed Isabella.” 

Jim leaned over him further, his eyes searching Oswald’s. “Who is Isabella? Oswald?” 

But Oswald drifted away, unable to answer. 

***

Jim watched him sleep for a few minutes, content to watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths. It was more than he hoped for, seeing him breathe again. But after the contentment faded, anger overtook it. There was no mistaking what Oswald had said before he slipped into sleep. Ed was the one who shot him. 

His gun was sitting right on the table, waiting to be picked up. And Jim itched to do it; he wanted to pick up his gun and kick in doors until he found Nygma and forced him to confess to shooting Oswald. He wanted to put that gun at point blank range and shoot him in the stomach and push him into the river. It was what Nygma deserved, if not worse. 

Ed and Oswald had been friends, he dropped his head to his hands, trying to regain control of his rage. They had probably been more than friends; the rumors surrounding their close friendship had not gone unnoticed by Jim. So what had gone so poorly that Ed took Oswald to the docks to kill him? 

And who was Isabella? 

He didn’t need to feel this protective for a man he once considered an enemy. He didn’t need to care so much. But still, he ached to do something; the detective in him wanted to solve this, to bring the perpetrator to justice. 

But wouldn’t that mean that he had to bring Oswald to justice too? Didn’t he just admit to killing a woman? 

He couldn’t think about that now. He grabbed his gun and tucked it into the back of his pants. Right now, he needed to do something. 

He found Nygma at the Van Dahl mansion, where he hadn’t been looking for him. He intended to pick up clothes for Oswald, maybe grab him some tea or a robe he could live in for a while during recovery. Instead of Olga opening the door, it was Nygma, his hair still damp, his eyes dark and lost. 

Anger washed over Jim with the force of a tidal wave and he had to heave a deep breath to keep from wrenching his gun from the waistband of his pants. “Nygma,” he ground out instead, his mind trying to come up with an excuse to explain his presence. “I’m looking for Olga.” 

“Why?” 

“Oswald asked for me to pick up some things for him,” Jim said finally, watching Ed’s face carefully for a clue. The man’s face went ashen, and he quickly reached for his glasses and adjusted them, leaving them in the exact same spot as before. “He was going to go to some safe house or something? I don’t really know.” 

“I – I don’t think Oswald needs that favor done anymore,” Ed stammered, still half-blocking the door. 

Jim clenched his jaw. Of course he thought Oswald didn’t need favors done anymore. “All the same,” he said. 

“If you insist,” Ed moved away from the door, allowing Jim to pass him.

***

The week following Oswald’s rescue was rocky; Jim found he was more emotionally compromised than he cared to admit, and while Oswald seemed to be healing just fine, he woke up every night with nightmares, calling for Edward, apologizing profusely, and crying. Every night Jim pretended not to hear him, lest he embarrass him. But every night, he was filled with an ache that he recognized. He wanted to comfort Oswald; he wanted to be able to make him feel better. 

He just wasn’t sure he was the man to do that anymore. 

On the ninth night, Jim was still awake when Oswald started whimpering in his sleep. This was always the precursor, he thought as he brewed tea. The whimpering, followed by the crying, then the screaming, and the pleading. The pleading was by far the worst; Oswald’s voice was still ragged from coughing up water, and the nightmares weren’t helping him heal. 

“Please…Edward…” 

This time, Jim didn’t even try to stop himself from going to Oswald’s bedside. He crawled in beside him, reaching for his hand, for his face, whispering soothing words. Before long, Oswald was gripping his hand tightly, his head buried in Jim’s chest, crying freely. 

“Please – please don’t –”

“It’s okay, Oswald,” Jim murmured against his hair. “It’s okay, I’m here.” 

Oswald clung to him tighter, enough that Jim could snake an arm around his waist and very carefully hold him, avoiding the stitches from the gunshot as best he could. He let his hands run through Oswald’s hair and up his back, soothing touches that he remembered from his own childhood. 

“Jim?” Oswald’s voice was quiet and thin. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over Oswald’s cheek. The man pulled back long enough to make sure it was really him, and then collapsed back into his embrace. 

“Thank God,” he said quietly. 

***

The morning dawned quietly and dully, and Oswald slept past it, well into the afternoon, and woke as the sun was peeking in. That made it almost two in the afternoon. He hadn’t slept this long in years. He carefully turned away from the sunlight, content to lie in the sunlight so long as it wasn’t shining in his eyes. But a heavy arm was pinning him in place, and he had to lift it just a bit to turn over without pulling on his stitches. 

Turning over brought him face to face with a sleeping Jim Gordon. 

Amazingly, the wrinkles in his brow were still there when he slept. Oswald smiled and reached up and pressed the pad of his thumb into his forehead, smoothing out the lines. Jim barely moved, but pulled Oswald in closer, almost possessively. Oswald remembered waking from a particularly potent nightmare hours ago, with someone’s arms around him, his hands pressing soothing words into his skin. 

He had hoped it was Jim, but he had never actually dared speak that hope out loud. 

Yet here he was. 

“James,” he said quietly. “Do you have to go to work today?” 

Jim didn’t even open his eyes, but let his hand rest at the back of Oswald’s head and pulled him closer to his neck, resting his chin on top of Oswald’s head. “Mmm…no work today,” he murmured. “Just sleep.” 

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Oswald murmured into Jim’s skin. 

“Did you have more nightmares?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

Oswald shook his head. 

“Good. Now go back to sleep.” 

***

Jim woke another couple of hours after that, refreshed and rejuvenated. Oswald was sitting in the chair beside the bed that Jim used to occupy when Oswald was having a bad day, reading one of the few books in the apartment. 

“I made tea,” he said without looking up. Jim groaned, covering his face with his pillow, inhaling the scent of Oswald’s hair. “Thank you, by the way.” 

Jim pulled the pillow off his face reluctantly. “For what?” he asked. 

“For, you know, helping me through my nightmare,” Oswald replied. “I know it’s not what you signed up for when you offered your apartment as a triage center.” 

“I wanted you to sleep well,” Jim said matter-of-factly. “And…well…I don’t like hearing you in pain, Oswald.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” Oswald’s face flushed a light pink at Jim’s words, but he pushed past it determinedly. “Why did you pull me out of the water? Surely letting me die would have solved a lot of your problems.” 

“Solved my problems?” Jim repeated incredulously. “Oswald, having you in my life is not a problem.” 

Oswald glared at him over the edge of the book. “I don’t exactly bring good things into your life.” 

“You bring plenty of good things,” Jim insisted. “Besides, we’re friends. What kind of friend lets their friend die?” 

Oswald’s eyes left Jim and settled on something far away. After a moment, Jim understood. Edward. 

“Oswald, I know you don’t want to talk about it –”

“I don’t –”

“And I’m not saying you have to,” Jim raised his hands in mock surrender. “But I want you to know,” he slid closer to the edge of the bed, just far enough that Oswald was just out of his reach, “if you ever want me to go out that door and bring you Edward Nygma, to do with as you choose, I will.” 

Oswald surveyed him skeptically. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” 

“If you wanted me to kill him,” Jim said seriously, “I would do that for you.” 

Oswald furrowed his brow. “And why would you do that?” 

Jim hesitated, his mind very clearly mapping out where this conversation was headed now that they were treading dangerous territory. There were only a few ways they could proceed, and many of those ways would ruin the very carefully cultivated friendship they had. 

Still, he pressed forward. 

“Os,” he scooted to the edge of the bed, his hand reaching for Oswald’s wrist. “He was your friend. And he pressed a gun into your stomach, shot you, and pushed you into the river to die.” He squeezed Oswald’s wrist for just a moment before relaxing. “When I pulled you out of that water, I was sure that you were dead. I didn’t think you were going to come back.” 

“But I did –”

“Because I fractured your ribs pounding your hearbeat back into your chest!” Jim exclaimed. “You were dead, Oswald. Not almost dead, not unconscious. An EMT would have pronounced you dead.”

“So why didn’t you?” 

Jim didn’t answer, worried that he had shown too much of his hand, that he had pressed too hard. Oswald didn’t love him anymore, he loved Ed. He couldn’t complicate his recovery with unwanted confessions. 

“When I was unconscious, just barely alive, I heard something,” Oswald said, closing the book he was holding in just one hand and reaching for Jim’s hand that rested on his wrist. “If you ever do me another favor in this life, keep breathing.” He stared down at Jim’s hand, under his own. “You have to understand, by the time Edward took me out to that dock to die, I thought no one wanted me to breathe anymore.” 

Jim’s hand tightened almost painfully. 

“I was content to die because I had no one to live for anymore. And then…there’s you.” 

Jim didn’t speak, barely breathed, waiting for Oswald to continue. 

“I need to know if you saved me because of some misguided hero complex or because you really wanted me to live,” he said, his voice quiet and broken.

“I saved you because I love you,” Jim said simply. 

“Let’s not be crass,” Oswald sneered, pulling his hand out of Jim’s. “I’m asking you to be honest.” 

“I am being honest,” Jim protested, reaching for Oswald’s hand again, but he pulled back, out of his reach. 

“No, no, don’t, is this a dream? Am I hallucinating?” Oswald carefully stood from his chair, pressing himself away from Jim. “Am I really dead?” 

“Oswald –”

“No, the real Jim Gordon would never say those words to me,” Oswald insisted. “This has to be some sort of...some sort of…God, something! This isn’t real.” 

Jim didn’t push him, didn’t reach for him, but sat perched on the edge of the bed. “You’re so convinced that I could never love you?” he asked. 

Oswald didn’t have to answer. 

“I’ll admit, I didn’t care much for you at first,” Jim said softly, glancing down at his own hands so he wouldn’t have to look at Oswald. “You were precocious, demanding, almost rude. And then you showed up at the precinct to invite me to your club opening, and I said I wasn’t going. You pressed that invitation into my hand. It was one of the first times you ever touched me first. And your hands were cold, and just barely trembling.

“I didn’t go to the club opening but I thought about what it must have been like. I didn’t understand at first; I thought I was just curious, that you intrigued me. But then you looked me in the eye and told me that Galavan murdered your mother, and you were so heartbroken. I was furious for you, I felt your pain.

“You have haunted me every waking moment of my life since the day I told you to leave Gotham forever. But after a while, it wasn’t a haunting. You were a companion. You told me once, walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light. Perhaps one day I started believing it. Now it’s just a universal truth.” 

Oswald reclaimed his seat, his eyes searching for Jim’s. “No one’s ever told me they loved me before,” he admitted quietly. “Except for my mom and my dad.” 

“They have good taste,” Jim shrugged, trying for humor. Oswald smiled, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “If that word worries you,” he said, reaching for Oswald’s hand gently, “I don’t have to use it.” 

“For now, why don’t we settle for more sleep?” Oswald asked. 

Jim didn’t answer, just scooted back to offer half of the bed to Oswald, who eased himself in, his hair already mussed and disheveled. Jim opened his arms, smiling contentedly when Oswald curled into his arms.


End file.
